Biographer's note: Each portion of this story comes with an audio version done via "From Text to Speech" (http://www.fromtexttospeech.com/) for those who would prefer to listen to their books. Click the title just below the gif and enjoy!
At
this moment, I wouldn’t be remit if I affirmed, returning to my previous
statement, that my attraction was stunningly not racist. I know this because what my eyes followed and
my dick surveyed was not an attractive man by any means. Nor was he ‘Shaka-Zulu’-movie hot – you know
the kind sold in ‘Black man/White boy’ porn.
And his rubbish trainers ensured either his barely working-class status
or complete cultural naiveté. So why was
I sporting a hard on so tight that it threatened to rip my trousers?
Rory
noted my arousal – additional evidence of his repressed homoerotic fantasies –
and leaned over to say, “Hey! You want
the ugly old man? Not your usual, eh?” He sat himself up to finish his shot, “Right,
well, to each his own. He meets the
criteria, I suppose.”
“I
reckon,” I mumbled, also amazed at my sudden attraction. “His face does have that distinguished-look
about him though,” I justified. I
watched the man take a seat with his companion at an oversized, half-circle
booth some yards from our tall table. As
he ordered drinks, I finally noticed his girlfriend. She stood over the table momentarily, her
back to me. When she moved, her
enveloping gothic cloak hung over every curve like syrup on flapjacks and
swayed like linen over a summer clothes line.
She removed the cloak in parts – underneath the hood were bushy-long,
tight curls the color of Calla Lilies; nearly bare shoulders then arms, that
were an oddly off-white with a hint of beige.
She let cloak fall down to her wrists and I saw that the back of her
dress was a crisscross of white lace ties that struggled to keep delicate pink
cloth against her body – the colors made her skin’s paleness even more
unusual. When she finally removed the
cloak completely, laying it in a space near the center of the booth, I caught
her profile. The naturally plump, red
lips and the flattened edge of her nostril explained her complexion.
Rory
snorted, not even trying to hide his racism now. “Ugh!
Where I come from, they shoot those creatures,” he said referring to the
woman’s albinism.
I,
with equal arrogance, replied, “Your people would shoot you as well.” I was reminding him that despite his denials
otherwise, just being associated with homosexual activities or persons tainted
him with enough guilt for a public flogging or a session of private torture
then beheading. “Anyway, a deal’s a
deal. I suggest you close your eyes and
prepare yourself for the moaning.”
I
took another, albeit slow sip, of my drink to consider my approach. A closer look led to my realization that he
was older than I originally thought – more salt than pepper in his beard, a bald
head compensating for receding hair and deep laugh lines – all of which were
strange realizations because the light this far into the bar was darker than at
the entrance. This man was elderly by my
just-a-whisper-into-20something-self – probably mid-50s. That should have grossed me out. I’m not into the ‘daddy-son’ thing. But when the waiter trotted off with their
drink order and he caught my staring, I felt my face flush as if I’d done
something naughty. He paused a moment before
chuckling then leaned forward to point me out to his female companion. She turned around completely in the booth
and gave me a visual once over like someone contemplating a luxury car
purchase. I started to look away but
quickly recognized my childishness. So,
I looked back, applying a small smile only to be taken aback by her counter
look that mimicked a wonder of how she would look riding in my front seat.
She
turned back around toward him and he laughed again before waving me over. I thought of playing the silly game of ‘who
me?’ but reconsidered. This was a couple
who obviously came here for a definitive purpose and I fit their checklist, so
why fuck with fate. Anyway, Rory’s €1500
would settle any weirdness that could come from this encounter.
I
hopped off my stool a little more eagerly than I wanted – than was probably
wise – but if these folks were as sophisticated as I anticipated, there would
be little for me to hide soon anyway. My
walk toward them clinching what was left of my drink was simple though. “Hello,” I said plainly as I leaned forward,
my hands atop their table, my legs slightly back to keep my ass in the air like
a slag working a £10 pull, “Never seen you in here before.”
“Never
been here before,” he said with an American accent.
Tourists! I should have known. “Visiting long?”
He
chuckled, “Long enough to taste what England’s got to offer.”
“I’m
not English.”
He
chuckled again, “I’m sorry. I forgot you
white people over here feel the need to make distinctions of privilege even
amongst yourselves.” She joined his
amusement.
“I’m
a Welshman,” I declared with a furrowed brow as if representing all my
countrymen.
“Relax,
Mr. Welshman,” he replied, moving over and patting his hand to an area next to
him, “Come and sit. Let’s see if we can
come to some agreement that will satisfy everyone, eh?”
Reluctantly,
my curiosity supplanted my national pride, and I sat next to him at something
of a careful distance. Then I asked a
silly pick up line, “You two do this often?”
It
was her turn to mock me but he replied, “Hardly, as I may surmise it is not
your first time out, right?” He waved
down the waitress, “Come on now. Calm
down. No one is going to force you into
anything you don’t want.” He took the
drink I had finally placed on the table and sniffed it. “Let me order you another and save your
friend’s pocketbook.”
“You
can afford Glenfiddich?” I asked.
“Now
who’s being culturally insensitive?” he responded before ordering a round for
everyone. “I’ve done lots of
traveling. Right now, my work brings me
to the U.K. My wife and I figured we’d try the bars here.”
“You
do this often?” I asked again.
“Do
you?”
I
puffed up a bit. “I’m a student. Studying physics and philosophy.”
“Can’t
make your mind up, eh?”
“Why
do you say that?”
The
waitress brought the drinks. Rory tipped
his glass at the older man and the latter nodded back. Then the older man took a long sip, enjoying
the taste before letting it leisurely glide down his throat. He considered me some, then replied, “Most
folks choose one or the other in the beginning only to revisit them both as
grownups.”
“Are
you implying I’m not an adult?”
“No,”
he said, “I said you’re not grownup.
There is a difference. But don’t
be offended. I think I only reached it a
few years ago myself!” He looked at me
and grinned. His countenance was warm,
as if he was sincerely communicating that he liked me. “So, are you a philosopher or a scientist?”
I
shrugged at my defensiveness but still wanted some reassurance of his
intentions like a bespectacled girl being asked out for the first time. “Right.
Well, I’m swotting at them both at the moment.”
“Swotting?”
“I
haven’t chosen a concentration yet.”
That was a complicated topic and one I wanted to avoid. I changed the subject. “So, what brought you two here?”
“I
suppose the same thing that brought you, only I imagine I can afford it better
than you,“ he responded. He looked at his wife, probably noting that
she had finished her drink and was looking around the room. He caught her eye and nodded in the direction
of a fit female on the nearby dance floor.
The wife eagerly got up and bounced in pursuit of her prey. I wondered if the other girl was aware of
what she could be getting into. “My wife
does not like playing as much as I still do but she kindly encourages my indulgences.” He took another sip and continued, “The one
thing I like about Europe is that such sexual encounters don’t have the dirty
connotations that they do back home.”
“Where’s
home?”
“Detroit,
although I’m originally from New Orleans.”
“It’s
not like things have been legal around here for that long.”
“True,
but it’s different . . . easier somehow.”
His last words dropped like a thud and it didn’t seem like he wanted to
argue the point. He returned to the
business at-hand. “What do you like?”
“I’m
a power-bottom,” I declared with more defiance than was probably necessary.
“What
the fuck does that mean?” he replied, shaking his head. “You kids nowadays! You have to put unnecessary labels on
everything – cover all your bases as if sex was all that complicated. Why can’t you like what you like and leave it
be?”
I
offered another armored response, “Because details are important. It keeps down the confusion. I just want to control it from the other
side, is all.”
“You
want half the control then? You don’t
want to give it all up? What’s the fun
in that?”
“What
do you mean?”
He
ordered another drink for both of us but this time included bottled waters as
well. Between the order and the server
returning with it, he said nothing, like he was considering how to simplify
this concept for someone as naïve as myself.
When he spoke next, he looked at me directly, squinting so that the
wrinkles around the black spots that served as his eyes seemed more like
glaring camera lenses than projectors.
“Either you get your pleasure from pleasing others or you don’t. Controlling the how or what of the pleasing
is counterproductive, the way I see it.
Sex is about letting go not ordering things around like someone’s
training a puppy dog. Happiness is
freedom – take it from a man who will never be truly free. If your nature is to serve, then be who you are.”
“Why
aren’t you free?”
He
considered me for a moment and, likely, recognizing my limited experience,
responded kindly, “My son, I’m a Black man.
My skin is a cage someone created for me at birth and I carry it with me
no matter where I go.” He rubbed my
face. His hands were remarkably
soft. This wasn’t a man who did hard
labor for a living. His touch stimulated
my clairsentient skill, a psychic ability to sense emotions in others. This talent was new to me and I’d spent much
of my late adolescence trying to suppress it.
I was afraid of it and still untrained in its applications. It would be nearly a decade before I would truly
appreciate and learn to manage this skill.
As
his fingers caressed my cheeks, I started to have visions, revelations about
his life – this man was an engineer for a military contractor who was smarter
and better educated than his superiors but who could not advance. He knew it would be no different at any other
company and financial obligations – a sick mother, two kids in college, a
nephew with mental health problems – meant that taking the risk of starting his
own firm was out of the question. But he
recognized his blessings – an understanding, supportive wife, finances that
allowed him to travel as he liked, and a realistic appreciation of his
sexuality. I realized that what
attracted me when he came in the door was his dignity. “So, Mr. Welshman, what’s caged you?”
His
last words shocked me. He’d withdrawn
his hand from my face which left me chilled.
“What do you mean?”
“What forces you to put labels and limits on
what makes you feel good?”
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